


Every Dog Has Its Day

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Firefighter Dean, Homeless Castiel, M/M, Slow Burn, Tattoos, Veteran Castiel, Veteran Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's new to Sioux Falls. In between meeting the mysterious Cas Novak, and helping save a puppy whose name they can't agree on, he thinks this place can become something like home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Dog Has Its Day

So Dean thinks it’s pretty self-explanatory— men have fantasies about how they’re going to fall in love, too, regardless of what popular media says. They’re all not just sitting around, white knighting for the hell of it, waiting for love to fall in their lap. Nope. And  maybe Dean finally realized that, realistically, he wasn’t gonna be pushing someone out of the way of a speeding car, or bursting into a wedding to profess his love, or even looking at his best friend in a certain slant of light and realizing that _the one_ was there, all along, and he never knew it. Because he’s waited around and none of it’s happened. No chorus of song, no kissing in the rain, no badass moment to give Dean his due.  He’s just gonna have to blunder his way through.

                Which isn’t to say Dean is always thinking about falling in love. He’s happy enough, healthy enough, and he feels like he’s fitting into his new town of Sioux Falls. Most of the time he feels like love is going to happen to a distant Dean, the Dean of tomorrow who had all his shit together and bought his Christmas presents before December 23rd.

                Dean isn’t thinking about it when he’s driving down Main Street in the early evening, slowing down for a red light, and he sees in his side mirror a darkly dressed figure come sprinting down the sidewalk. Mostly he keeps looking because he has appreciation for a fine form, no matter whose it is, and this guy has some great thighs, Dean can tell. It’s only when the guy goes streaking past the hood of Dean’s Impala, out into the intersection, when Dean realizes there might be more to this than just an evening jog.

                “Get out of the fucking road!” a driver yells, honking, and Dean’s heart jumps into his throat when the driver doesn’t even slow down, revving past the jogger in an angry burst. The man doesn’t even look fazed—he’s slowly approaching something, with deliberate steps, and that’s when Dean sees the small and, frankly, terrified-looking puppy that’s frantically darting back and forth in the intersection.

                “Ah, fuck,” Dean says. The light turns green but he stays there, not wanting to scare the dog in a different direction. A car behind him starts honking.

                Across the way, whatever asshole driver coming from the other direction has no such qualms. The car moves forward, almost clipping the puppy, which makes a distressed sound and leaps out of the way. The man in the intersection doesn’t even spare the asshole driver a glance, either—he dives for the puppy, trying to grab for its collar, but the dog dances out of reach and runs in the other direction.

                More honking behind Dean. He turns on his hazards and slowly trundles forward. The sight of the approaching Impala makes the dog zigzag away, towards a side street. Dean flips on his blinker and follows, the running man pounding down the sidewalk next to him. Dean speeds up a little, herding the dog off the road and up onto the curb. The dog yips, turning in confusion, when Dean jerks the car into the driveway in front of it, blocking the way. The dog barely takes a couple more steps before the man is there, sinking down onto his knees, fingers grasping around the collar.

                “Gotcha,” the man gasps. He sounds like he’s been running for a while.

                Dean opens his door, ignoring the warning _dings_ from his running car, and gets out.

                “Nice job,” he says. “Jesus, that was a close call.”

                “Stupid dog,” the man says, shaking his head, although he doesn’t seem angry. “She’s been running in the road for the past ten minutes.”

                “Surprised she didn’t get hit already, then,” Dean says, letting out a whistle, and he kneels down too to gently pat the puppy’s heaving side. The dog doesn’t seem to be too interested in doing anything but lay there, shaking and panting. She’s cute, now that she’s not almost road kill—a mutt of some kind, with long brown ears like a beagle. “What’s her name?”

                “I don’t know,” the man says. Dean looks up in surprise, and the man shrugs at him.

                “Not your dog?”

                The man shakes his head. “I saw her in the road down by the hardware store. I was just trying to help.”

                The hardware store, Dean knows by now, is about a mile and half from where he first saw the man go sprinting past his car. Talk about stamina—sometimes Dean gets winded taking the trash out.

                They sit there in silence for another minute or so, just petting the dog and catching their breath. Up close, Dean can see the man must be in his mid to late 30s. He’s got a dark five o’ clock shadow growing in, and nice lips, but Dean’s mostly looking at the dark windbreaker, the jeans, that made him blend in with the growing darkness—thinking about the car that almost sideswiped him, _get out of the fucking road_. This guy had thrown all caution to the wind, trying to save this stupid, shivering mutt.

                “What now, do you think?” Dean says.

                “I’m not sure,” the man replies. “She has a collar, but—” Dean watches him bend his head, the nape of his neck revealed, as he fumbles in the puppy’s thick fur. “No tag. Of course.”

                “Okay,” Dean says. “Maybe a trip to the vet, you think? The owners could have microchipped her.”

                “Maybe,” the man replies, but he sounds doubtful. Dean doesn’t blame him. In many ways, Sioux Falls is a nice town, a pleasant town, but they’re not much for “faddish” or “new-fangled” technology—such as microchipping a pet. Apparently they’d rather hit the dog in the road and be done with it.

                “I can drive us there,” Dean offers. He doesn’t know why but he feels like he’s a part of this, now, like they’re a team. The man makes a grateful sound and puts both arms around the trembling pup, cradling it to his chest as he stands up. Dean watches as the man unzips his windbreaker, gently folding the puppy into a warm place against his heart before zipping it back up again.

                “I’m ready,” the man says, as the puppy squirms its head beneath his chin. And that’s how Dean meets Castiel Novak.

**

                He doesn’t learn much else, besides, on the car ride to the vet’s office. Castiel is mostly quiet, pointing out directions, so Dean takes it upon himself to fill up the silence.

                Dean Winchester, he says. Originally of Lawrence, Kansas, but Uncle Bobby isn’t as young as he used to be, and the salvage yard is only getting harder to maintain, and Sioux Falls has plenty of affordable fixer-uppers, which is what Dean used to do, back in the day—flip houses with Benny—until he realized firefighting was what he really wanted to do, and if Dean needed any extra incentive, anyway, he finagled himself into the Sioux Falls volunteer fire department, which was basically a dream come true, and there was really nothing tying him down in Kansas, anyhow, and he may be used to helping the odd cat out from the limb of a tree, all in a day’s work, he was never expecting that, off-duty, he’d be helping to corral a puppy playing chicken in traffic—

                Dean abruptly shuts up, realizing that he’s been babbling for the last three stop lights, and Castiel’s done nothing to interrupt him.

                “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m talking so much—it’s not I like I have a whole lot of exciting stuff going on, helping out in the salvage yard, transferring jobs—”

                “No,” Castiel says. “You have a job here, and family, and a purpose. There’s plenty to feel good about.”

                “Thanks,” Dean says after a moment. He glances over in the passenger seat, seeing Cas’s face slide in and out of the street lights, the slightly wiggling lump in the front of his jacket. “So, do you, uh—”

                Castiel points through the windshield. “There it is.”

                Inside the vet’s office, there’s a tired-seeming receptionist who accepts their explanations without comment.  Castiel holds the puppy still on the floor while the receptionist runs some bulky machine around the dog’s torso.

                “Nothing,” the receptionist says. “She’s not microchipped.”

                “Oh,” Dean says. The receptionist goes back to his desk, tucking the machine away, and Castiel is busy picking the puppy up, tucking the grateful dog back into his jacket again. “Uh, okay. So what are our options, here?”

                “Options?” The receptionist repeats. Castiel looks up, brow furrowed.

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Someone owns this dog—she has a collar. So in the mean time?”

                “Oh, it can’t stay here,” the receptionist says. “We don’t have room for it. I’m afraid there are only a few things you can do.”

                “Which are?” Dean asks, annoyed.

                “Well, you can try to take it to one of the no-kill shelters, but as far as I’m aware the only two for miles aren’t taking any more animals. You can try to keep the dog yourself for a few days, put up some posters and post on the Sioux Falls missing pets page, but ultimately the dog is your responsibility if the owner doesn’t come forward. Your only other option, I’m afraid, is to take it to the pound.”

                “Well that option doesn’t sound too—” Dean says, turning to shrug his shoulders at Castiel, but the receptionist holds up a warning finger.

                “If the owner doesn’t come forward to reclaim the dog within five days, the pound can either put it up for adoption or euthanize it.”

                “Euthanize it?” Dean repeats, in disbelief. “She’s just a puppy!”

                “And Sioux Falls has a problem with strays,” the receptionist says. “I have the number for the pound, one second, let me find it…” He starts rummaging in his desk.

                Castiel hasn’t spoken this whole time, but he looks like he just got punched in the gut, and Dean knows they’re both in the same predicament.

                “This sucks, man,” he says lowly to Castiel, running his hand through his hair. “I’d totally take her, you know, at least while trying to find the owner, but it’s just a puppy, not to mention I’m gone on twelve hour shifts…it wouldn’t be fair. _And_ my house isn’t exactly pet friendly right now, with wires sticking out all over the place—”

                Castiel is looking down at the puppy, whose mild brown eyes are gazing back at him, all innocence and soul.  Dean puts his hand on the guy’s shoulder.

                “You know, five days is an awful long time. Her owners might already be looking for her, and the pound will be the first place they’ll go. And after that, well—” He’s babbling again, but he doesn’t want Castiel to feel any lingering guilt about this. “After that, she’ll probably get adopted! This way, at least, it’s not like she’ll be just wandering the streets—”

                “Found it,” the receptionist says, holding up a piece of paper. “Do you want to take this with you—?”

                “I’ll take her,” Castiel suddenly says. “It—it’s fine. She’s coming with me.” He practically glares down the receptionist, like he’s expecting the man to challenge him.

                “Okay,” the receptionist says, who doesn’t seem to care either way.

                In what turns out to be the strangest night Dean’s had in Sioux Falls so far, the receptionist lets them use his PC to make up a poster. The man’s _ah fuck it_ attitude is good for something then, Dean decides, as he toggles between font sizes and uploads a picture from his cell phone, which shows the puppy lolling, sleepy, in Castiel’s sure hands.

                Castiel doesn’t have a cell phone number to give Dean, and is unwilling to give an address. Fair enough, Dean decides—he wouldn’t want to post his home address on a flyer, either—so for the time being he types his own number in.

                “And if the owner contacts me?”

                “You’ll see me around,” Castiel says.

                So, in the end, Dean prints off about twenty copies, leaving one with the receptionist, because the vet has a lost-and-found corkboard in the main lobby. Then he and Castiel drive to the grocery store, where Cas, pretending that he doesn’t have a sleeping puppy shoved beneath his jacket, spends about ten minutes in the pet aisle, examining their dog food selection.

                “I’m pretty sure she’ll like whatever you choose,” Dean offers. The fluorescent lights are starting to give him a headache.

                “Yeah,” Castiel says noncommittally. “This one is cheaper, by about five dollars. But _this_ one seems to have more of the nutrients that a growing puppy needs.”

                “Whatever you want, man. She’s your dog now.”

                “ _Maybe_ my dog now,” Castiel corrects, and after another few minutes of hesitation he selects the more expensive one. Dean watches as Castiel carefully unfolds his wallet by the register, counting out exact change. The cashier is giving the snoring bulge in Castiel’s jacket a funny look, but doesn’t say anything.

                In the car, Dean rifles through the trunk and finds a half-used roll of duct tape in his tool box. The roads are quieter now, the night starting to get windy, and he and Castiel are mostly silent as they drive from corner to corner, Dean putting on his hazards so Castiel can get out and tape posters to the light poles there. At last, the flyers are all gone, and Dean makes one last stop.

                “I really don’t mind taking you home,” he says, but Castiel shakes his head.

                “This is close enough. You’ve helped so much already, Dean. Thank you.” They’re in a part of town Dean’s never really been to; over Cas’s shoulder there’s a park and, beyond that, a cluster of apartment buildings. Dean wonders which one is Cas’s.

                “All right,” Dean says. “Well, I had fun, man. I hope I do see around, whether the owner gets in touch with me or not.”

                “Me too,” Cas says, and gives him a small smile before pushing up out of the car, his plastic bag of dog food dangling from his wrist. Castiel gives him an awkward, stilted wave through the window before he starts walking off. Dean almost lets him disappear before he cranks down the window.

                “Wait,” he calls, and Castiel comes back a few steps, cocking his head.

                “What?”

                “What are you gonna name her?”

                “Her owners probably already gave her a name,” Castiel says in a reasonable voice.

                “Fine, Cas,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “What are you gonna call her in the mean time?”

                “I don’t know,” Cas says finally. “Any suggestions?”

                “Something badass,” Dean decides. “Running in traffic is pretty metal.”

                “Something badass,” Cas says slowly. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

                And Dean keeps that image with him—Cas, tentatively smiling at him through the darkness—as they go their separate ways: Cas, cutting through the park, and Dean to the warmth of his house.

**

                It’s through Uncle Bobby that Dean meets Jody Mills, otherwise known as the Sheriff of Sioux Falls.

                “Let me guess,” Dean says. “She’s had to give you one too many rides home from the bar, huh?”

                Bobby gives him a black look like he wishes Dean had never come to Sioux Falls, let alone been born.

                “No,” he says hotly. “I can hold my own.”

                “Most of the time,” Jody corrects. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” She turns back to Dean and smiles. “Believe it or not, we didn’t meet at the bar. Bobby helped me fix my old pick-up so I wouldn’t have to pay an arm and a leg at the mechanic’s…I guess I’ve grown on him, huh?”

                “Maybe just a little,” Bobby grumbles.

                It’s then that Dean realizes that he probably shouldn’t have dropped by Bobby’s just out of the blue. Apparently the strange dating rituals of old drunks and small-town sheriffs are in effect here.

                “Uh, you two are, uh, got it,” Dean coughs. “You know, I’ve just got off a killer shift myself, I think I’m gonna go home and crash—”

                That old dog, Dean thinks, driving home. Bobby might be over the hill, now, but that didn’t mean he’s down the count. He must have some pretty slick moves in his back pocket if he could garner the interest of the intelligent, sharp-as-tacks Jody Mills.

                Somehow his thoughts drift from their burgeoning romance to thoughts on Cas, who he hasn’t seen in three days, ever since they rescued the puppy from the road. Dean wonders what Cas ended up naming her. Cas had said that Dean would _see him around_ , but considering the fact that Sioux Falls isn’t exactly a hotbed of arson or forest fires, Dean hasn’t been _around_ very much. Mostly, he played cards at the firehouse with his new colleagues, and, as newbie, was sent off to get all their lunch orders around noon.

                Dean briefly considers driving out to the park, where he last saw Cas and the puppy, and passing through the apartment complex back through there—but no, he decides, that’s a little creepy, and besides, what were the chances that Cas would be outside at the same time?

                So, then, it’s  a bit of a surprise when he sees Cas walking along one of the main drags, letting himself be led by an over-excitable, beagle-eared mutt, straining on a length of rope that Cas is using as a leash. Dean pulls over to the curb and rolls his window down.

                “I was just thinking of you guys,” he says happily, not caring if it sounds creepy or not. “Just taking an evening walk?”

                “Something like that,” Cas says, giving him a small smile. He has the same jacket as a few days ago, although now he’s wearing a knitted gray beanie, pulled low over his ears. He stoops down to pick up the puppy and comes over to the passenger window with her squirming under one arm.

                Dean leans across the seats so he can give her a good scratch under her chin. “How’s she been holding up?”

                “Okay,” Cas says. He seems a bit hesitant, and Dean’s isn’t sure why until Cas says, stilted, “Did the owners contact you?”

                “Oh,” Dean says. “No, I haven’t heard a peep.”

                Cas looks relieved, tucking the puppy in tighter under his elbow, like the dog is a furry football. “Strange,” Cas says. “Maybe they don’t care to find her.”

                There’s something tight about his expression when he says that, something Dean doesn’t like. “What do you mean?”

                Cas seems to deliberate. Finally, he says, “She was very dirty. I gave her a bath and found that her collar was so tight around her neck, the skin was starting to grow over it. The man at Petland told me she was probably kept tied outside until she broke free. He wanted me to buy medication for fleas, ticks, and worms, but—” He stops.

                Dean reaches out and pets the dog again, softly, while she licks at his fingers. “But what?”

                “But she’s not my dog,” Cas says, which is true, but Dean doesn’t think that’s what Cas was originally going to say.

                “Well, you’re being a great foster dad, at any rate,” Dean says. “What are you up to next?”

                “I’m not sure,” Cas says. He lingers by the window, not saying anything, and Dean’s kind of at a loss, too. So maybe Cas isn’t the greatest conversationalist. Dean could probably beg off, say he needs to get home, grab dinner, go to bed, but there’s something about Cas standing there, not doing the same, that makes Dean think that Cas _wants_ his company. Wants it, but isn’t completely sure how to ask for it, so he leaves that opening for Dean instead.

                Well, either that, or Dean’s completely narcissistic. But Dean doesn’t have any qualms with putting himself out there and asking.

                “Hey,” he says. “O’Malley’s Pizza is having its Saturday Slice special tonight. Two slices for a buck…you in?”

                Cas seems to think deeply on it. His hand, the one not holding the puppy, comes to settle over his jeans pocket, where his wallet must be. After a moment he looks up and nods. “I would like that,” he says. Then his face seems to fall. “But what about—”

                “They have an outdoor patio,” Dean says. “Besides, you have no problem shoving her up your jacket, remember?”

                Cas pulls open the car door and settles in next to him. This might only be the second time he’s done this, but for some reason it seems familiar to him. He waits until Cas is buckled up before he puts the car back into drive.

                “Hey,” Dean says. “I forgot to ask, what did you end up naming her?”

                And, to his surprise, Cas gives him a sidelong grin, teeth and all. “I’m not sure you’re going to like it,” Cas says.

**

                Dean, on his sixth slice, is still shaking his head in consternation.

                “I just—Ruth? Did you _hear_ me when I said badass?”     

                “I happen to find Ruth Bader Ginsburg very badass,” Cas says composedly, licking a strand of cheese from his finger.

                “Okay, well, the Venn diagram of what _you_ find badass and what _I_ find badass are, like, complete worlds apart.”

                Cas is still studiously dismantling his pizza, and shrugs. “Let’s talk about something else. Less bad, less ass.”

                Dean opens his mouth to make a rude joke and thinks better of it. By the lift of Cas’s eyebrow, it seems like Cas knows what he was going to say, anyway. And that shouldn’t make Dean feel all warm and tingly, dammit, that they already have this nonverbal communication thing going on now, decoding each others’ gestures, knowing what the other is going to say.

                “Fine,” Dean says. “Just tell me this—does she respond to that name?”

                And here Cas gets this faintly shy, embarrassed expression, like Dean’s stumbled upon some secret project of his. Cas takes a moment to wipe off his greasy fingers. “Well, I’ve been working on something with her,” he mumbles, and scoots back his chair so they both have a view of the puppy, whose rope is tied around one of the table’s iron legs. She’s busy gnawing at the tip of Cas’s shoe, completely ignoring the both of them.

                “Ruth,” Cas says, and both Ruth and Dean’s ears perk forward a bit for that, because Cas’s voice is suddenly deep and commanding, and Dean feels his stomach jump up like Cas just hooked something there. “Ruth, sit.” And he puts his hand firmly on her rump and pushes her the rest of the way down.

                Ruth immediately springs back up, her tail wagging frantically like this is part of a game, and Cas spares Dean another uncharacteristically nervous look before he fixes Ruth with a stern stare and says, “Ruth, _sit_.” Ruth squats, a little uncertainly, and puts up no resistance when Cas’s hand pushes her all the way into the sitting position. As soon as he lifts his hand away, though, she bounds up.

                “Well,” Cas says. “It’s just been something to pass the time.”

                “Hey, she’s halfway there already! That’s a pretty decent job after three days,” Dean says. Cas doesn’t answer, just feeds some of his pepperoni to Ruth, but he seems gratified by Dean’s comment.

                Later, after they’ve paid, Dean convinces Cas to let him give them a ride home, but once again Cas has him stop on the road outside his apartment complex.

                “Really, Dean, you’ve done enough for me today,” Cas says, which takes Dean aback, because he hasn’t done nearly as much as he’d like to. Just some conversation and a horribly unhealthy dinner.

                “Okay, fine,” Dean says. “I guess, I’ll just, you know the drill. See you around.”

                Cas nods and waves and starts off, and Dean watches the dog nipping at Cas’s heels until the two disappear into the darkness.

                One thing is definitely for sure. That dog is _not_ gonna be named Ruth for much longer.

**

                They see each other two more times in the week that follows. Sioux Falls is a small town, where everybody knows everybody, and Dean’s sure if he paid attention he would realize that he’s seen other people multiple times during the week, too. But he doesn’t pay attention to those other coincidences. He’s just keeping an eye out for Cas and the dog, whatever her name is.

                “I have a bit of an experiment,” he had said has time. “Hey, puppy!” And, when he had her attention, “Hey, Janis!”

                “No,” Cas said flatly, as the dog looked uncertainly at Dean. “Ruth.”

                “Hey, Stevie?” The dog looked at Dean.

                “Ruth.” And back at Cas.

                “Jett.” A tentative tail wag. “Come on, man, show some love for the lady rockers!”

                “I guess it doesn’t matter,” Cas said after a moment. “Her owners could reclaim her any day now.”

                And then Dean had felt a little bad, because it seemed like Cas was getting pretty attached to the little mutt and trying to seem like he wasn’t.

                Dean’s leaving work, thinking about whether he might see Cas and Ruth/Jett on his drive home, so he’s surprised when he sees the sheriff’s car parked right by his Impala. The surprise gives way to recognition when the door opens and Jody Mills steps out.

                “Hey, there, stranger,” she says. “Thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

                “Is this one of those, think of me as a friend and not as your mom speeches?” Dean says, coming forward to shake her hand. “I’d rather just not and say we did.”

                “Ha,” Jody says flatly. “No, honestly, I saw your car was in the lot and thought I could say a quick hello. How’s the new job treating you?”

                “Oh, I’m very, very, very slowly easing into it,” Dean says. “The worst thing that’s happened since I transferred here was a dumpster fire out behind the Walgreens. Not exactly next-level stuff.”

                “What can I say, Sioux Falls is a pretty quiet place,” Jody says. “Which reminds me, I’ve been hearing some rumors about you, Dean. Apparently you and Castiel Novak are quite the hot little item.”

                “I am _not_ a hot little item!” Dean says, indignant. “He’s one of the first friends I made here, these people need to find something else to gossip about.”

                Jody just shrugs. “Like I said. We’re a small town, with only dumpster fires to distract from the monotony. Are you denying it?”

                Dean shakes his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Why are you so interested in knowing?” But then he has a sudden thought, that this is a small town, where everybody knows everybody, and Jody would definitely know a thing or two about Cas Novak. Probably even more than Dean knows, if only because Cas can often be about as verbose about himself as a rock. “Do you know him very well?”

                “I’ve seen him around,” Jody says, tilting her head. “I’m glad he has some companionship these days.” Dean isn’t sure if she’s talking about him or the dog. Maybe both. 

                “So he’s a bit of a loner?”

                “Seems like it, yeah. He’s not from around here. I don’t really know why he chose to settle down in Sioux Falls a couple years ago, but it’s not like he’s very talkative about the subject. Or any subject, really.”

                “Right,” Dean says. So he’s being a bit nosy, fishing around, but it isn’t like Jody’s saying anything he doesn’t already know. Cas is a good guy; you’d only have to look at him to know it. That’s probably why Cas and Jody have had so little to do with each other—she’s been off being The Law with the people who needed it. Bobby, probably. “Well, Jody, we should make plans to get dinner with Bobby. Until then, I’m gonna—”

                “Wait,” Jody says suddenly, firmly, in a way like she’s suddenly made her mind up about something. “Look, this really isn’t any of my business. But there is one other thing you should know about Castiel.”

**

                The park outside the apartment complex has a small playground, two tennis courts, and a soccer field. There’s also the odd stand of trees, a clump of dense bushes, and it doesn’t take Dean very long at all to find a small crop of trees on the outskirt of the park, dipping down into a little hollow where he finds a neat camping ground. There’s a sleeping bag, caught up in a snug roll, and a collection of toiletries in a plastic gallon bag, and a tidy collection of tin cups and pots over a cooking grate.

                Dean hears a small scuffling sound, and looks up to see Cas rounding one of the trees, Ruth/Jett at his heels.

                “Oh,” Cas says, stopping when he sees Dean, and his look of surprise quickly morphs into something else—resignation, maybe, by the set of his shoulders. He walks past Dean and sets down a bag from the grocery store. “Who told you?”

                “Jody,” Dean says. Cas’s back is to him as he starts unloading the contents of the bag—a can of beans, a box of dog treats, a gallon of water. “Uh, Sheriff Mills.”

                “Most people in town know,” Cas says, and stops to tilt his head to the side, as if considering. “You didn’t, since you were new. I liked that.”

                “Cas,” he starts, slowly. “You and Je—Ruth, whatever. It’s getting cold, you guys—”

                “Her name is Spot, now,” Cas says. “I thought she should have a normal, common name, one that won’t put off any potential owners—”

                “Potential—? What are you talking about?”

                Cas blows out a breath. “I’m assuming you’re here because Sheriff Mills doesn’t think it’s appropriate for me to have a puppy out here in these conditions. She’s a pretty outspoken animal lover, you know, and Spot’s not really even my dog—”

                “No, Cas, no,” Dean says. “Jody didn’t make me come here to take away your friggin’ dog. She’s noticed that we’re friends and she was, well, _suggesting_ that maybe you could come stay…” His voice trails off when Cas loudly slices open the can of beans with an army-style opener.

                “I don’t want or need to be the focus of this town’s humane compassion,” Cas says. His tone is even, but cold, and it makes Dean want to sink through the ground. “You’re not the first, Dean—I’ve been offered two hundred dollars for just mowing a lawn, everyone _just happens_ to have spare clothes to donate to Goodwill  when I’m around, would I do them a favor and just take them off their hands?”

                “Okay,” Dean says. Ruth/Jett/Spot snuffles around his shoelaces, pulling one of the knots untied.

                “You came here because, like everyone else, you want to do the right thing, and doing the right thing makes you feel good about yourself,” Cas says. “Did it occur to you that if I wanted the help, I would have asked? I’m sorry if you don’t think you came here to be lectured, but I didn’t ask to be pitied, either.”

                “Okay,” Dean says again. They’re silent for a long time while Cas puts the bean to boil. Dean has a feeling that Cas doesn’t even want to look at him, and it hurts more than he would like, that Cas is disappointed in him.

                “So,” Dean finally says, after an interminable few minutes. He apparently didn’t plan anything to say past that, but Cas takes the opportunity to say,

                “Thank you for stopping by, Dean. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

                That’s as good a dismissal as any. He looks one last time at Cas’s tensed back, hunched over the cooking grate, before leaning down to tug on one of the dog’s long ears fondly.

                “See you around,” Dean echoes, and then he’s walking through the trees and away through the park.

                He knows that Jody only wanted to help. He knows what he feels for Cas is genuine. More than anything, he feels guilty that he hadn’t thought of Cas’s feelings beforehand—for not thinking that maybe Cas didn’t want to be the crux of some feel-good story, didn’t want anything handed to him at all, just wanted some peace, some quiet, some pleasant company in Dean.

**

                It’s a small town. Dean does, indeed, see Cas around, but mostly Cas just gives him an impersonal nod and continues on with whatever he’s doing—walking Ruth/Jett/Spot sometimes, and others caught in the middle of some small job or other: installing drywall, painting a fence, often something that lets him turn away from Dean with a stiff hunch of his shoulders. Jesus, it sucks. Only a week ago, he thought he and Cas had something special going for them. He doesn’t blame Jody for filling him in, but sometimes he wish he could be happily ignorant again. He wakes up every morning checking the lows for the day, hoping that Cas and Ruth/Jett/Spot are properly bundled up against the growing cold, hoping that Cas found enough odd jobs to pay for his food. He worries about Cas, but can’t tell him.

                Mostly, when Dean isn’t at the station, he’s hauling rolls of carpet back home, or installing new granite countertops, and the work never seems to end. He wants it to be a place that he can imagine having friends and family over, a cook-out lit by the sunset in the backyard. He wants it to be a place where he could imagine having a lover there, a smiling face across the table from  him, but who or when that would be is anyone’s guess. In fact, falling in love seems frankly kind of terrifying, most of the time, mostly because Dean’s a drama queen at heart, wanting something badass and explosive to start it off with a bang. Mature, adult Dean, of quiet Sioux Falls, is apparently supposed to be romancing people with nothing but himself, which seems awfully brave and stupid. So it’s no wonder that he doesn’t venture out much, but instead hoses down brush fires and buys a compost bin.

                And then something happens. Dean, driving home from work, sees a familiar figure jogging down the side of the road. The light is failing, but Dean somehow knows, just by the shape of Cas’s shoulders, how distressed he is. That’s even before he sees the bundle of fur in Cas’s arms, the brilliant line of blood dripping down his forearm.

                A car honks angrily as Dean abruptly pulls across two lanes of traffic, parking the Impala haphazardly halfway on the curb. Before he even knows it, he’s rounded the hood of the car, running towards Cas.

                “What happened? Is she okay?”

                Cas’s face is blank and awful.  “I, I left her at the dog park—I was helping shingle a roof—they said some huge dog took a chunk out of her side, and the owner just took off, and no one knew what to do—Dean, she’s just been _laying_ there—”

                “It’s okay,” Dean says. “Get in the car; I’m driving us to the emergency vet.”

                “But—”

                “Get in the car.”

                Cas drops into the passenger seat. Close up, Dean can hear the distressed whimpering coming from Spot, and he quickly shrugs out of his flannel overshirt and passes it over.

                “Here, wrap her in this. Try to stem the bleeding; we’re only a few minutes away.”

                Cas takes the shirt without a word. The drive goes by in a blur, Dean circumnavigating a few trafficked intersections, swerving around a grassy median as they bounce into the clinic parking lot. He throws the Impala into park.

                Inside, the vets quickly hurry Spot away, leaving Cas with a bloodied flannel in his arms and a lost expression. Dean helps Cas field questions and fill out paperwork, and Cas fishes out his license for the front staff to have on file, but mostly they just wait for any word.

                “I shouldn’t have left her,” Cas speaks up, miserably, after an hour of silence. “I’m a shit foster parent.”

                “Don’t say that,” Dean says. “If you’re gonna blame anyone, blame the dickbag who let his hellhound eat Spot for lunch and then fucked off to avoid responsibility. That’s fucking ridiculous.”

                Cas doesn’t say anything, just stares at his shoes. Dean wonders if Cas has been lonely, cutting Dean out of his life, and now maybe even Spot—no, he shouldn’t even think about it. But it makes a deep ache settle in his chest, watching Cas beating himself up in the chair next to him. He reaches out a hand and places it carefully on Cas’s knee. To his surprise, Cas lets it stay there, even puts his own hand over top it.

                An hour later, the vet comes out to tell them that Spot will be just fine. She’ll have quite the battle scar from where they stitched her up, and she’ll need to stay overnight, take some medications, but she’ll be okay. Dean and Cas let out twin sighs of relief.

                “Can we see her?” Dean asks.

                Cas looks hopeful, and then his hand drifts towards his pocket, and he says, “Excuse me, doctor, is there a way we could work out—”

                “You don’t have to worry about it,” the woman says. “Vets helping vets. It’s our pleasure, seriously.”

                “Wait,” Dean says. He turns to Cas. “You’re a vet?”

                “A veteran,” Cas corrects, but he’s not looking at Dean. He’s looking at the veterinarian like he can’t decide whether he should be offended or not. “But I didn’t—”

                “Can we see her?” Dean says again, and the veterinarian must not want to have that conversation, either, because she steps aside and ushers them into the sterile hallway beyond her.

                Spot, when they see her, is still in a sorry state. Her whole side has been shaved, leaving only naked skin and a jagged, reddened line where she was stitched back together. Her eyes are half-closed, moving sluggishly beneath her lids.

                Cas puts a hand very gently on the puppy’s head. “Thank God,” he says, and his voice sounds a little hoarser than normal. He leans in close and tells Spot, in a serious voice, “You’ve been very brave. Good girl, Spot. _Good_ girl.” And her tail gives a feeble thump.

                And then Dean feels Cas’s hand, closing around his, and he can’t contain his smile—they stay there, holding hands, and Cas softly praises Spot until she drops away into sleep.

**

                Dean approaches the situation as carefully as he can.

                “This isn’t for you,” he says firmly. “Spot needs to be a stable environment to recuperate. She can stay at my place.”

                “What about when you’re gone during the day?” Cas says.

                “Well,” Dean says, feigning casualness even though he’s positive Cas can see right through him, “I guess you would have to stay there with her. To take care of her.”

                “Right,” Cas says. “And what am I supposed to do with all my time?”

                “Well,” Dean says, braving himself for the equivalent of a high-dive into shark-infested waters, “I actually thought about that, too. See, I bought my house as a bit of a fixer-upper. So, if you’re going to be staying there for the foreseeable future, maybe you could, you know, lend a hand and help out around the place. If you’re willing.”

                Cas’s mouth draws to the side, and then down, and then he turns his face completely away. Finally, he says, “I’d have to stop in the park for my things. Spot’s food is still there, too.”

                “Of course,” Dean says, trying not to sound too giddy. “Hey, that’s another thing— _Spot_? Are you really keeping that?”

                “Do you have a better suggestion?”

                They both look down at the beagle-eared dog in question, who’s sleeping with her shorn side facing them.

                “You know what she’s reminding me of?” Dean says. “Natalie Portman’s character in _V for Vendetta_. With the shaved head and everything? Come on, _that’s_ badass.”

                “Nat?” Cas says, and seems to think about. “That could work.”

                That night, when Dean pulls into his driveway, Cas is in the passenger seat with a backpack balanced on his lap, and Ruth/Jett/Spot/Nat is napping in the wide backseat, and when Cas turns to look at him his mouth quirks into something tentative, something hopeful, something that Dean knows he can work with.

**

                For the next few weeks, Dean feels like he’s living in a soap bubble. Everything feels delicate; he’s afraid that this lovely new set-up could pop at any moment.

                It wouldn’t be quite fair to call Cas a flight risk. He just knows that Cas doesn’t want charity, is already looking at anything Dean does for him in a narrow-eyed kind of scrutiny. It makes Dean step carefully, not doing the easy kinds of things he’d do for others in Cas’s place—making dinner, for instance, or putting the new space heater in the guest bedroom where Cas is staying. He wants Cas to know that Dean just does these things for the people he loves, taking care of them in any way he knows how to, and Cas is no exception. No charity in that, no pity. But they haven’t exactly had that kind of conversation yet, hence the soap bubble.

                The soap bubble is like a preview for a tantalizing life that Dean would love to have. Coming in off a twelve hour shift, he’ll find Cas washing dishes in the sink, Nat nosing at a toy by his feet. When Dean closes the garage door behind him, both man and dog turn their heads in tandem, smiling in welcome, and Dean has to resist the impulse to say, “Honey, I’m home,” or something equally embarrassing.

                Sometimes Cas will be watering the still-thriving shrubs bordering the house when Dean comes home, while Nat tries to snap her jaws in the jet of water to get a drink. Sometimes Dean comes home to find Cas and Nat puttering around the backyard, raking or mowing the lawn, Nat always just a few feet behind.

                And most of the time, instead of telling Cas that he doesn’t need to be doing any of that, like Dean would with any other guest, Dean just lets it go. He’ll find a way to help or, if he can’t, he’ll fire up the grill and feel happily domestic, sizzling steaks and watching Cas patiently try to teach Nat to sit, to stay, to come when called, and the proud smile Cas gets when Nat does just that.

**

                Dean is still half-asleep, shambling to the bathroom, when the door suddenly opens and Cas steps out. He has a towel around his waist, and seems unperturbed to see Dean with his pillow-creased face and bedhead; he even gently touches Dean’s arm in greeting as he passes.

                Dean doesn’t mean to look like a streetside gawker, blatantly checking someone out, but he can’t seem to help it—Cas, skin pinkened from the shower, with a tattoo low on his flushed hip,  and another small rectangular one just below the jut of his collarbone; Cas, brushing by him, showing him a long lovely back with the suggestive, spare tattoo of wings there, over his shoulder blades, curling over his shoulders, and the quill of each feather is the delicate cursive of a name.

                And Dean is suddenly very much awake, with a very dry mouth, watching Cas as he walks into his bedroom and closes the door softly behind him.

**

                There are some things that they just don’t talk about. Ruth/Jett/Spot/Nat is getting better every day, her fur gradually growing back in. Cas hasn’t mentioned leaving anytime soon, but he’s never acted like he’s going to stay, either.

                They don’t talk about Cas revealing that he‘s a veteran, or why Cas is homeless. They don’t talk about the tattoos.

                They don’t talk about how they let their bodies brush up against each other when putting the dishes away together, or holding hands when they watch TV in the dark living room at night, with Nat—growing bigger, gangly—lolled over their laps. They don’t talk about what would happen if Nat’s owners came out of the woodwork and want their long-lost dog back.

                Which isn’t to say they don’t talk. Dean coaxes more laughs out of Cas every day, telling him about work or Bobby or whatever is on his mind. Cas has been a lot of places in his life, and he knows a lot of things, and slowly those things reveal themselves, too. They talk and they look and they stand too close, most of the time. But not more than that, not yet.

**

                One Saturday, when Dean’s off work, the two of them strip down the as-yet-unused office, removing boxes Dean’s stored there, taking down the blinds, until the room is bare and filled with sunlight. Then they put down a tarp and tape all along the windows and doorframe and get to work painting.

                Dean has a boom box, one so old that Cas let out a pleasant bark of laughter when he saw it, and he tunes it to a local classic rock station. They both whistle along, Cas humoring him when Dean thinks it’s time to belt out a chorus or two, while Ruth/Jett/Spot/Nat lounges in a spot of sun coming through the window.

                Dean likes seeing Cas whistling along, wearing an old t-shirt of Dean’s, with paint flecks covering his forearms and the backs of his hands. He likes the graceful way he balances at the top of the ladder, and his concentration on painting along the edges just right. Dean, leaving to grab two beers from the fridge, has to stop at the door for a moment, watching—Nat, napping at the foot of Cas’s ladder, and Cas leaning over so his shirt is stretched tight over his shoulders, and the dust motes dancing in the light.

                Cas must sense him, or see him from the corner of his eye, because he turns and sees Dean standing in the door and jumps down from the ladder, coming over close to snag one of the beers by the neck.

                “What?” he says.

                “Nothing,” Dean says. But then he lets himself be honest and says, “I like you here.”

                Cas twists off his cap and smiles down at his beer. “I like me here, too,” he says.

                And it’s not much longer after that when, with the sun beating through the windows, the room stuffy, that Cas shrugs out of his t-shirt with hardly a glance at Dean, who fumbles with his paint roller and then tries to pretend he didn’t. There’s more of a heaviness to the room now, or maybe a layer of anticipation, because Dean can’t help his eyes from sliding over to Cas, how the paint glows on his warm skin, and the tattoos stretch and slide as he paints on diligently.

                He can feel a flush climbing up his neck by the time Cas turns and catches his eye. Something about his expression makes Dean think that Cas is giving him an opening here, a chance. Like he wants Dean to ask, which isn’t exactly unfamiliar in their relationship. If Cas can summon up the courage to just take that tiny step, Dean can do the rest.

                “You, uh, tattoos,” Dean says, and clears his throat. “Anyways. I couldn’t help but notice.” He uses his paint roller to gesture over Cas’s exposed chest.

                “Do you want to know what they mean?” Cas says, voice carefully neutral, like he couldn’t care less.

                “Yeah,” Dean says, “I would.” And, with a confidence he doesn’t feel, he steps over closer to Cas.

                Close up, he sees the faint lines of worry, like parentheses, around Cas’s mouth.

                “I served two tours in Iraq,” Cas says. “I got a Silver Star after taking enemy fire.” He gestures to the tattoo just beneath his collar bone. There’s a tiny, fine chain tattooed around his neck, slightly off-center, like it had been pulled askew, and connected to it a rectangle, like a dog tag. Inside the rectangle, there’s a pit of scarred skin, where the bullet must have entered.

                He suddenly turns around, showing Dean the graceful tracery of wings over his shoulders. “My unit…they called us the Lost Regiment. Almost no one...well.” Dean takes a step closer and sees, now, the names inked in cursive along the quill of each feather. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Dean runs a finger along one of the names.

                “Anna,” Castiel says, although there’s no way he can see where Dean’s finger is. “Killed behind enemy lines.”

                Dean’s finger smoothes over to the next name. “Balthazar,” Cas says. His throat bobs. “Friendly fire.”

                And then, “Zeke. Self-inflicted after he came back home.”

                Dean spreads his hand across Cas’s warm back, momentarily covering the rest of the names, just letting his palm rest there.

                “Anyway,” Cas says after a moment. He turns around under Dean’s hand. He cocks a hip forward, showing the words rippling over the bone.

                “‘Only the brave can fall,’” Dean reads aloud.

                “I got that one after I came back,” Cas says. “Military family, you know. No one appreciated my fall from grace.”

                “What happened?” Dean asks, and Cas lets out a humorless laugh.

                “I was very good at my job, Dean,” he says. “There were two civilians, two _children_ , approaching despite our warnings, and we couldn’t tell if they had weapons or not. And I was supposed to engage....and I said no. And not long after that, I was sent home. Honorable discharge. It all looked very good on paper. ”

                “Did they?” Dean asks. “Did they have weapons?”

                “You know, you’re not the first one to ask me that,” Cas says. “But I don’t think the answer really matters. I think the real problem is what came before that—that a situation could exist where two children can be seen as enemies, targets to be blown away with a press of a finger.”

                They’re both silent for a long moment. Nat, as if sensing Cas’s distress, staggers up from her nap, coming to fold herself at his feet. Cas stares down at her, his face softening. “For the longest time, I’ve only wanted to be on my own. I felt like I saw the worst of humanity, and I didn’t want anything more to do with it. I don’t want people to pity me as something _broken_ , or then think they _owe_ me as soon as they find out I’m a veteran. But then I found Nat, and I found you, and it’s helped. It’s helped more than I can say in words. I shouldn’t have cut you out like that before, and I’m sorry—I guess I forgot that there are still so many _good_ things in the world, if I only give them the chance.”

                “You don’t have to be sorry,” Dean says. “You really, really don’t.”

                “So that’s me,” Cas says abruptly, gesturing to his tattooed front with a jerky motion.  He couldn’t make it clearer that he wants to move on, that what he wants right now isn’t anything else heavy with emotion,  asking  any more of him.  “There’s my story.”

                As much as Dean would love to, it still isn’t his time to stand up on his soapbox, declaring his romantic feelings towards Cas. So Dean carefully sets his beer down and then sits down on the white tarp covering the floor. He pats the spot next to him and then, after a moment, Cas does the same, settling in with Nat between his knees. Dean stretches out on his back with a sigh, lacing his hands behind his head as he does. From this angle, all he can see is the white-washed walls, the sun streaming through the window, the perplexed look Cas is giving him.

                “You’re more’n a story, Cas Novak,” he says lightly. Cas doesn’t say anything so, after a moment, Dean starts whistling along to the song playing on the radio. Next to him, Cas puts his elbow on his knees, and starts whistling along too, and Dean goes to bed that night with that moment imprinted behind his eyelids—the bow of Cas’s lean back, the wings subtly shifting with each breath, his hip touching Dean’s.

**

                Here are a few things Dean notices over the following weeks.

                He notices how Nat is a constant shadow to everything Cas does, always at his heels but never in his way, quick to obey an order given in Cas’s deep, commanding voice. He notices that sometimes he hears muffled, distressed sounds in the night, making him sit up in bed and wonder if he should go to Cas, but eventually it falls away, and Cas’s half-open door reveals Nat draped over Cas’s shins, or Cas’s hand buried in the thick fur of her neck.

                He notices that Cas seems looser around the house now, a relaxed set to his shoulders. Sometimes, when Dean comes home, Cas is working on some project around the house, but also, sometimes, he walks in to find Cas with his feet kicked up on the sofa, watching NatGeo. He talks more, about the places he’s seen and lived in as he hitchhiked across America, eventually settling in Sioux Falls for no other reason than he didn’t feel like walking any further. Sometimes his years spent in Iraq will crop up in conversation, or his friends in the unit—hesitantly, at first, like he’s testing the waters, and then more freely.

                He notices how Cas doesn’t exactly seem cold, but he seems maybe a little standoffish, the first time Jody and Bobby come for dinner. And then, by dessert, he and Jody are gabbing like old friends, about everything from the kickback on a certain gun model to veterans’ issues, the lack of care, and Dean notices that for someone who claims to be only a has-been, a lowly foot soldier, Cas is more knowledgeable than anyone else he knows, and so much more passionate—using his hands to sketch in the air, a flush growing high in his cheeks as he makes his point.

                He notices the close, anxious look Cas gives him when Dean comes home one day with a nasty bruise across his shoulder, from where a burning, falling plank had struck him as he fought a flaming barn. He _definitely_ notices when the covers lift later that night, and the mattress dips, and then there’s a long, lean body in the bed next to him.

                “Cas, what—”

                “Don’t be a fucking moron,” Cas grumbles, and then his arms are winding around Dean’s chest like two iron bands, effectively pinning him into the little spoon.  Dean just smiles and lets his hand drift down to Cas’s forearm, holding on as he drifts back into sleep.

                The soap bubble finally popped, and here is what the aftermath the next morning looks like: it looks like Ruth/Jett/Spot/Nat snoring at the foot of the bed, her silky ears spread out over the covers. It looks like Cas sleeping with his face mashed into Dean’s stomach, it looks like his blissed-out expression as he wakes up to Dean running his fingers down his back, it looks like Dean layering kisses over a sentence on Cas’s hip, and a rectangle just under his collarbone, until Cas is laughing from Dean’s ticklish morning stubble, until Nat wants in on the action and leaps onto Cas’s stomach, her tail thwacking Dean across the face as she does. It looks a lot like Dean smiling until his cheeks hurt, because he can’t look at Cas and not.

**

                Dean can give credit where credit is due, so really the thanks goes to Bobby, his curmudgeonly uncle who somehow attracted the attention of Jody Mills, sheriff and staunch animal lover, who because of that is close friends with Ellie, the owner of the no-kill shelter on the outskirts of town.

                “What’s Ellie like?” Dean asks Jody, lifting his throat so she can knot his tie. He figured, if he was going to be selling her on a business plan, he might as well dress the part—suit and all.

                “Big heart,” Jody says, pulling the tie snug. “And she doesn’t take any bullshit. So you better find a way to impress her.”

                “Maybe I _should_ have made a Powerpoint,” Dean says, and Jody pats his shoulder and wishes him luck.

                The no-kill shelter is less than a ten minutes drive. It’s on a large tract of land, surrounded by a fence, with plenty of trees for shade, and additional fences to separate large and small dogs, and even a small pond, glistening in the sunlight. It looks like a dog paradise.

                Dean’s heart feels like it’s beating all over his body by the time he walks into the main office. He has to find a way to not screw this up, to not let Cas down. Cas doesn’t know he’s here, anyway, but the point stands.

                “Hi there,” someone says, and he turns and sees a slim woman with her dark hair caught back in a ponytail. “Dean, right? I’m Ellie.”

                “Hi, Ellie,” he says. “Let’s get right to business, huh?”

                Here is the problem, Dean tells Ellie. Sioux Falls has a problem with strays. This means that the no-kill shelters hardly ever have openings, which means any other strays are often left at the pound, more than likely euthanized.

                Another problem, Dean says, in a broader sense, is that some of those dogs could have been given the chance to save lives. Some of those dogs could have gone on to become service dogs, companion dogs, for a broad array of people. People with physical and medical needs, and also people suffering from depression, panic disorders, PTSD. More specifically, in a problem close to Dean’s heart, veterans who come back home from unimaginable horrors abroad, needing more support and care than the government currently supplies, who could benefit from the unlimited love and loyalty a companion dog provides.

                Here is the solution, Dean tells Ellie. She needs to create one new position at her no-kill shelter. She would fund the person in this new position to complete the necessary dog training courses, get the certification, but the basic requirements would be that the person has experience communicating with and training dogs. The pay-off would be that this person could prepare the shelter’s own dogs to be companion animals, which would mean those dogs would have the qualifications to go to homes that really need them, while the shelter would then have openings for new strays. Once the word gets out, the program would most likely be able to run at no cost, through donations only, because it’s a win-win situation, handling the problems Dean has laid out before her, and if nothing else donations can be written off in taxes.

                Ellie, who has listened closely without interrupting, holds up a hand there. “I definitely see a lot of potential in what you’re saying,” she says. “But I noticed you didn’t have any suggestions as to who the dog trainer would be. If you want to specifically help veterans with this program, it stands to reason you would want the only person involved to be sensitive to veteran—”

                “Good point,” Dean says. He’s almost bouncing out of his chair, and Ellie smiles at him, despite the interruption. “I have just the person, actually. Super qualified, experienced in training dogs, a veteran of two tours. You can come with me to meet him right now, actually. There’s just one thing…”

                “What?” Ellie says.

                “Don’t hire him because you think you should,” Dean says. “Hire him because he’s the best man for the job.”

                “I wouldn’t do it any other way,” she says, and Dean accepts her handshake with a broad grin.

**

                In retrospect, one thing Dean could have done was given Cas the slightest hint of what he was up to. Cas’s look of confusion when Dean comes home with Ellie is almost funny, at first. But Dean is nervous, hoping that Ellie sees what Dean does in Cas, that Cas will accept the offer she hopefully makes, and seeing Dean nervous makes Cas’s whole body slump into something like resignation.

                “Hi,” Cas says finally, standing up from the couch. “I’m Cas.”

                “Ellie,” she responds, coming forward to shake his hand. From behind Cas, Nat stands up on the couch, cocking her head. “And this must be…Nat, right?”

                “Something like that,” Cas says, reaching out to pat Nat’s head in a slow, sad way. “Although,” he says, and stops for a moment. “Although, over the past few days I’ve come up with something new to call her, if you like it any better. I’ve been calling her Grace.”

                Ellie says politely, “Grace is a beautiful name.” There’s a brief silence then, where Cas refuses to look at either of them, and Ellie gives Dean a slightly puzzled look.

                “I can’t say I didn’t expect this to happen,” Cas says abruptly. “I’d prefer to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

                “Sure,” Ellie says. “Well, truth be told, Dean’s the one who reached out to me about it—”

                Things start lining up then around the time Cas’s head jerks up, his eyes wide and hurt as they meet Dean’s.

                “Whoa,” Dean says. “Wait. Hold the phone. Ellie, I’m really sorry, just give me and Cas a minute—” And he grabs Cas’s limp arm and hauls him into the kitchen.

                “Dean, why would you—”

                “Jesus, I feel awful. Look, Ellie isn’t Na—Grace’s owner, okay? She runs the no-kill shelter and wants to hire you as a trainer.”

                Cas drags his palms roughly down his cheeks, like he’s trying to wake himself up. “Wants me to what?”

                “Well, train dogs to—”

                “I can keep Grace?”

                “Grace is _your_ dog, Cas. No one’s gonna take her away.”

                Cas’s relieved smile is like seeing light for the first time. In fact, in between Dean feeling like he’s going sunblind, stuttering out his pitch, and Cas so relieved he barely seems to be listening, everything after that seems to go a lot easier than he thought it would. Eventually Cas goes back out to the living room, shaking Ellie’s hand again with a warm, firm grip, apologizing for the misunderstanding.

                And then Ellie and Dean hang back and watch Cas in his element, still smiling broadly, as he puts Grace through her paces. Grace, with her ears slightly pricked forward, sits and speaks and fetches on command. She walks close to him but never trips him, her eyes trained on his as he talks. Ellie, intent, says that Cas has a naturally commanding voice, an authoritative presence, which dogs seem to respond to. And then she follows that up by saying she’d be really happy to have Cas working with her, and the job is his if he wants it.

                “Thank you,” Cas says. “Thank you.”

                “So you’ll take it?” Ellie says, bemused.

                “Yeah,” Cas says. “I think I will.”

                Dean makes hamburgers for dinner as celebration, humming around the kitchen with a spatula in his hand. Cas, who’d been talking on the front porch to Ellie, finally comes back in, and Dean doesn’t miss the thoughtful, considering way Cas looks at him, although Cas doesn’t say anything then.

                It’s only a few minutes into dinner when Cas looks across his plate to Dean and says, “Ellie says the whole thing was your idea. Saving strays, turning them into companion dogs for veterans.”

                Dean puts down his hamburger. “Yeah,” he says. “It was.”

                “Okay,” Cas says, and goes back to eating his hamburger.

                “It’s not me trying to be charitable, or anything,” Dean says. “Cas, I’ve seen you with Grace, and—this is where you belong, Cas. It’s what you’re good at. You say stuff sometimes like you think the be-all and end-all of your abilities was being a good soldier, but it’s not, Cas, you’re so much more than that. I’m not trying to force you into anything you don’t want, Cas, _God_ , I don’t want you to think this was some—some pity thing, ‘cause it’s not. It’s me believing in you, one hundred percent. Because I think you can do things that not a lot of other people can do.”

                “All right,” Cas says, stuffing the rest of his burger in his mouth, washing it down with a swig of beer.

                “Are you—are you mad?” Dean says, uncertain, because Cas isn’t acting like he was in the park clearing that time, the last time Dean tried to have a say-so in Cas’s life, but he doesn’t know what that necessarily means, either.

                “Am I mad?” Cas repeats. “You’re obviously a pretty observant guy, Dean. Figure it out for yourself.” And then he gives Dean a long, meaningful look, and picks up his plate and puts it in the sink. Without looking at Dean, he walks off down the hallway to Dean’s bedroom, shrugging out of his shirt as he does.

                Dean sits there very still for a moment, and then mutters “ _fuck_ ” to his plate, before pushing back his chair so fast it almost teeters over.

                Inside the bedroom, he’s almost immediately backed against the wall, Cas’s lips on his own, Cas’s hands traveling up under his shirt, fingernails drawing lines up Dean’s sides, as he kicks the door shut.

                “Shit, Cas,” Dean groans when the other man draws away, and then  Cas says, “Lie down,” in the kind of voice he uses when training Grace, a deep rumble that doesn’t fail to make Dean perk up all over the place.

                “Yeah, okay,” he says faintly, and walks past Cas to scoot himself backwards onto the bed.         

                Cas makes quick work of taking the rest of his clothes off. Dean watches from the bed, a palm pressed to the swell in his jeans, as Cas’s torso does beautiful things as Cas leans down to drag his jeans over his feet, followed by his boxers and socks. He straightens up, his dark eyes meeting Dean’s, and gestures at him. “Now you,” he says.

                It’s kind of hard to undress without looking at what your hands are doing, but Dean somehow manages. He can’t look away from Cas, standing there without a shred of self-consciousness in the light coming in front from the window. He lets his eyes wander over the tattooed feather-tips curling over Cas’s shoulders, the flush already spreading across his chest, the line of script across a hipbone that Dean would honestly like best underneath his mouth right now, sucking a hickey across it.

                He lifts his hips to wriggle out of his jeans, kicking them off impatiently when Cas comes to stand by the side of the bed, resting one knee on the mattress, and takes himself in hand, slowly stroking himself to full weight.

                “Don’t start that shit yet,” Dean says, petulant, dragging his boxers over his ass. “Wait for me.”

                Cas breathes out a surprised laugh and lifts his leg over both of Dean’s, sitting on his knees over Dean’s thighs. “I figured we’d be doing this together.”

                Cas leans forward, one hand gripped around the headboard, the other taking their cocks together. And makes a positively filthy sound when Dean rocks his hips up, fucking up into Cas’s fist, their skin catching together, which only encourages Dean to do it again.

                “Fuck,” Cas whispers, and it’s rare enough to hear him curse, so Dean sits up on his elbows and kisses him, wanting the dark taste of it from Cas’s mouth. Mostly they just gasp against each other lips, fumble kisses over each others’ chins, and the only other sound is the slick slide of Cas’s fist working them together, over and over, until Dean’s panting with the effort. He finds that his hands are already spread across Cas’s thighs, buried in the meat of them, and he uses that as leverage to flip them onto their sides.

                Before Cas can protest, Dean’s got a thigh slid between Cas’s legs, and his fist closing back around their cocks. There’s a whine to his breathing now, especially when Dean presses a hand to the sweaty small of his back, pressing Cas closer. Cas works his hand between their bodies, gently rolls Dean’s balls in his palm, tearing a groan out of Dean before moving up, molding his fist around Dean’s, adding to the pressure and the heat until there’s nothing but uncoordinated, sloppy thrusts, desperate, unraveling. Dean comes with Cas’s thumb circling the head of his cock, with the thin skin of Cas’s dogtag tattoo caught between his lips.

                He’s all sorts of unfocused and dreamy by then, but he manages to impress even himself when Cas lets out a frustrated breath, since Dean’s grip has grown loose and ineffective; he peels away Cas’s palm, still wrapped around them, and shimmies down the sheets to finish him off with his mouth. It doesn’t take very long, in fact, it’s rather nice, with one hand still at the small of Cas’s back, coaxing him forward, and Cas’s body curled around him like a parentheses, letting out these beautiful gasps. Afterwards they both lay there, boneless, until finally Dean nuzzles into the curve of Cas’s hip— _only the brave can fall—_ and pushes himself up.

                “You didn’t wait for me,” Cas says. Now he sounds petulant.

                Dean pushes a conciliatory hand through Cas’s sweaty hair. “Practice makes perfect,” he says. “Maybe next time.”

                Cas rolls over onto his back and stretches, letting out a contented sound at the back of his throat.

                Dean starts to push himself up and Cas says, softly, “Dean, thank you.”

                “Come on, man, you don’t have to thank me for—”

                Cas shakes his head. “All this time, people have been trying to give me money or clothes or food, but that was never what I needed. I needed someone who could help me find _me_ again.”

                Dean rolls back over and cups Cas’s face in one hand. “You’re right here, Cas,” he says, and kisses him.

                Later that night, after Dean grabs a towel and wipes them down, and Grace pushes the door open with her nose and leaps up on the bed, after Cas and him change into their pajamas and arrange themselves around Grace’s sleeping bulk, Dean makes himself stay awake a little longer. He doesn’t want to take this for granted, to forget even a moment of this—Grace’s hot breath against his arm, or Cas’s dark head on the pillow next to his, or his ankle twined around Dean’s.

**

                Dean doesn’t spend a whole lot of time fantasizing about how he’s gonna fall in love anymore. Mostly he just lives life the same, with long shifts at the firehouse that are mostly made up of cracking jokes and playing cards, the occasional rush of a house fire. Being a firefighter in Sioux Falls isn’t exactly the most exciting job Dean’s ever held down, but he’s far from complaining. He likes letting kids monkey around on the firetruck, giving safety lectures. He also likes the adrenaline of fighting fires, the occasional pet rescue, and coming home footsore and smoke-smelling so that Cas can affectionately call him _hero_ and ride him into exhaustion.

                Uncle Bobby stills needs help with the salvage yard, so Dean tries to get over there at least once or twice a week to try to haul around spare machinery and find willing buyers to pawn parts to. He and Bobby helped pick out a weather-beaten pick-up for Cas a few months ago, a horrendous orange color, and while Cas is too stubbornly independent to let Dean fix anything for him, he did let Dean _teach_ him how to fix it, which resulted in long afternoons in Bobby’s driveway, trying to figure out the stalled transmission, and plenty of Dean’s engine oil handprints left all over the back pockets of Cas’s jeans. Cas is now considered a fixture around town for an entirely different reason—running errands in his eyesore of a vehicle, with a herd of happily panting dogs piled into the truckbed.

                Dean’s driving to see Cas now, with Cas’s forgotten lunch sending up tasty fumes from the passenger seat, as well as a letter that had arrived in the mail today. This isn’t exactly uncommon for Cas anymore; since he no longer sleeps in the guest bedroom, it’s become a kind of scrapbook for the success of the venture that he, Cas, and Ellie started two falls before. The latest comes from someone named Cole Trenton, a former Marine all the way from Maine, with a picture of him and a mixed Pomeranian mutt named Bernie, one of the first companion dogs that Cas had trained. Dean always tries not to feel proud about Cas after reading some of the grateful, moving letters that Cas received, but generally fails miserably. Cas is doing what he loves, and Dean loves watching him do it.

                Ellie’s grabbing her own mail when Dean comes down the lane at the shelter; she waves and jerks a thumb behind her.

                “He’s in the back field,” she says, and Dean lifts a hand in thanks before driving on.

                He finds Cas out on a grassy hill, with seven or eight dogs arranged in a semi-circle around him, all sitting, watching him with avid eyes. He hops the fence and sits down on the grass next to Grace, the only one not being trained—she’s lolling a few yards behind Cas, but still keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings, like she’s just waiting for one of these half-trained mutts to put a paw out of line. Dean pulls on one of her ears affectionately.

                After about ten or fifteen minutes more of training, Cas turns and sees Dean and beams.

                “Thanks for bringing that,” he says as Dean stands up and hands him his lunch. “I can’t believe I forgot it.”

                “I appreciated any excuse to come,” Dean says, and cups a hand around Cas’s jaw and kisses him. One of the dogs Cas is training starts barking, and Cas pulls away, probably to chastise the dog in question, but Dean just laughs and draws him back in again. Soon enough there’s a chorus of howls around him, and a wet nose jammed inquisitively into the back of his knee, and Cas has a warm hand pressed to the back of his neck, steady and sure.

                Dean feels filled with something that’s bright and bursting and alive, enormous in its possibilities.  

                Dean feels brave.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep writing Cas and dogs for some reason. OTP? Oops. 
> 
> I am not updating again until I finish Chapter 2 of All Roads Home, as lovely michaelfassdong requested. It's halfway done and very long already, probably will end up being a monster!
> 
> You, lovely readers, are not monsters. You are lovely and I love you. Thanks so much!
> 
> paperclothesline.tumblr.com


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